Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Feeding the Hogs

The sky was gray.

The wind was cold.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and led me to the door. We wandered off from under the carport and angled to the red International pickup. He pinched the door latch open and pointed to the middle of the worn black vinyl bench seat.

I crawled in.

I sat.

Waited.

He turned and smiled running his hand down the hood.

He walked back under the carport.

He was gone.

The wind blew. My breath was in the air of the cab.

The floorboard was full. A crushed paper bag. A hammer. A can of QuakerState. Rusted fencing staples. Red dirt. Pinkeye spray. It was purple.

He returned with a pail. A grin was on his face. The door creaked open as a grunt sat him under the wheel.

I turned and peered through the back glass.

It was thick. Mushy. Light brown. It was still steaming. An electric grind turned the starter slow and squeaky. The engine turned over. He rolled his tongue between his lips as a denim cuffed hand pulled the gear lever underhand. I turned back on bent knees and stared while his brown leather boots worked the gas. Slowly, we backed down the creek gravel road.

He got out and opened the gate. The engine idled. Another grunt came as he sat back down and moved the truck through the opening. Soon we were off to the hog pen.

The pasture road was rutted and muddy. The trucked idled slowly past the old home place, the outdoor toilet, and the barn. Across the pasture stood a couple of black walnut trees. Underneath them was a jumbled looking shelter made of tin and hog wire.

As we pulled up, I became timid towards getting close to the strange beasts, their ears covering their eyes, noses held high to the cold air. I held tight to his hand and he used his other to draw the pail from the truck bed. We walked over to the sty.

The hogs grunted and smacked as Pop poured the warm slop into a steel trough. Their heads bumped one another as they fought to suck the sour brine.

I looked up and saw a man smiling down at me. His mouth was wide. His glasses mirroring the light. The worn cap with its black bill and marlin patch snuggled down against his ears.

The hogs smacked and grunted.

His hand held mine. My Pop’s strong gentle hand.

The sky was gray.

It was a cold wind.

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